


don't you leave me lonely

by Anonymous



Series: one love, one house. [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assault, Blood and Violence, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Harry-centric, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, No Smut, Ordinary!Louis, famous!harry, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a life-changing event, Louis' left with visible scars and Harry's left with the heavy weight of guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you leave me lonely

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this forever ago but never posted it because the last section just magically disappeared and I gave up on it. It's just an angsty, melodramatic shit storm but maybe it'll be a good read to someone??? Also, I'd like to add that this story does involve an act of assault but it is NOT Harry assaulting Louis or visa versa. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own 1D, obviously and this is a work of FICTION.

He's standing by the window in the sitting room, one hand holding up the lace curtain as he peers out. His face is in profile, unreadable against the morning sun. He looks closed-off and shuttered, that faraway look in his eyes he gets when he's under the bright scrutiny of paparazzi and reporters. He's the kind of beautiful that fades under flash photography and crystallizes on glossy magazine paper. He's the most bewitching when he's breathing under his own terms, loose and easy. 

Harry's growing more and more afraid as the days go by that he's sucking that vibrancy out of Louis. Like a leech, taking what doesn't belong to him just to survive. A parasite. He's terrified that he's becoming an increasingly hungry parasite. He's not entirely sure what to do with that knowledge. He knows that voicing such fears to the lads won't do any good; they're all so fond of Louis that they'll suggest that he break things off if it's gotten that bad, to _stop being selfish_. His mum and sister, who love Harry too much, will push him to try harder, _do better_.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, approaching cautiously.

Louis looks over slowly; the muscles in his neck twist sinuously with the movement, so enticing. Harry knows he could never let go, not unless he's forced to do so. 

“I'm alright,” Louis says in a measured voice, a slight uplift of optimism in it. “I'm fine.”

“You sure?” 

Harry doesn't want to nag, doesn't want to push too far but the words spill out of his mouth unhindered. There's a drag of silence after his pointless question. In the background, beyond the cracked window, the ocean rolls gently on and off the shore with a satisfied rumble. Louis stares across the room at him. He feels a distinct crawling across his skin, but he's not on anything. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it just lasts now, like a nightmare that he will never wake up from.

“Are _you_ okay?” Louis asks. 

\-----

Harry changes Louis' bandages that evening as they sit out on the back patio under the colorful umbrella. His stitches are harsh and dark against the paling skin and it makes Harry's stomach churn. He carefully wipes away the dried, crusted blood with a wet flannel before unrolling a new length of bandage to wrap around Louis' forearms. It's mostly just to cover up the wounds, now. 

Once he's done, he turns Louis' hands up in his lap to look at the cuts that are healing on the surface of his palms. It's a terrible sort of self-torture, not letting go of the fact that a loved one is suffering and you're not being able to share the pain. But the worst kind of self-torture is realizing that you would never _want_ to share it.

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles, not yet pulling his hands away. 

That's the thing. Even after _this_ , this which should have been a decisive strike, Louis is still so composed in his presence. Harry's not delusional enough to think that it's purely trust that keeps Louis from fleeing like one might expect. But he has no words to describe exactly _what_ keeps Louis from packing his bags and shutting the door firmly behind himself. Whatever _it_ is, Harry's deeply grateful for it.

“Are you hungry?” 

Louis hesitates as he glances out across the stretch of growing grass at the water. When he turns back, he nods and gets to his feet. He leads Harry back into the bungalow and hauls himself up onto the counter. Harry begins pulling things out of the fridge and pantry, aimless in his mission. He stands beside Louis for a minute or two, staring down at what he's grabbed and trying to piece together a recipe in his head. ' _You're the only one who can cook properly, best accept that now'._ He'd said that once, Louis, when they first started dating.

“Want to listen to some music?” Louis asks once Harry slides back into motion. 

Without waiting for a reply, Louis slips off the counter and walks over to the iPod dock by the pile of mail that Julia, the housekeeper, has stacked neatly for their return. He sets his phone into the dock and begins scrolling. Harry waits, tense, as he chops cucumbers in uneven slices. The first wave of music hits him like a tangible force, making him shiver. _I can see it coming 'round full circle, my friend. On the TV they said they had reported you dead._

He can't help himself. He turns around, only to find that Louis has disappeared. 

An hour later, he finally finishes dinner. Louis' yet to reappear and it puts him on a fine, sharp edge of agitation. He sets the table as calmly as he can before heading into the sitting room. It's empty so he moves onto each room in the one-level house. He eventually finds Louis back outside, standing on the shoreline with his feet nestled in the wet sand. He has his hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy, rolled-up jeans and his thin jumper flutters in the wind. 

Harry hangs back for as long as he can bear, studying the figure beyond his reach.

“Would you like to eat now?” he calls out. 

Louis turns abruptly. The way the blood orange sun is setting makes it difficult to see Louis' face. 

“Why do you keep talking to me in questions?” he asks. “Why can't you just say something? Why do you keep _asking_?”

Harry's startled by the anger, the frustration in Louis' voice. 

“I – I'm sorry, I – ”

“And stop fucking _apologizing_!” Louis yells, strong over the increasing wind. “Stop! Or I might just start thinking this _was_ all your fault!”

 

\---

 

They met five years ago and started dating soon after. 

Louis'd been a uni student majoring in architecture; Harry and the lads had just started recording their first album under a legitimate label, grasping at the fame and fortune they'd all dreamed of. They met in Hyde Park one day when Harry was out jogging and Louis was drawing in his notebook. They fell together fast. 

Any spare moment the two had, they spent together. Louis would occupy the time hunched over his work desk, sketching and measuring, as Harry listened to the band's new album over and over and silently critiqued himself. When he couldn't sleep, swallowed up by self-doubt and insecurity, Louis would lie next to him and tell him stories about famous buildings, about how they were made and why. 

Even once the band started touring globally, Louis was there. He was Harry's lighthouse, sweeping through the darkness and beckoning him safely home. They moved in together once Louis graduated, a pretty little house in Kensington with a secluded back porch for Louis to use as his work quarters on days that allowed it. 

They were a 'private' couple, preferring to hide away from speculation and exposure. But when they walked red carpets or attended events together, Louis got the brunt of the unwanted attention. He was quiet, modest, and unsmiling despite Harry's manager's pleas for him to make himself likable. 

It'd been no secret from the start that people were massively confused by the pairing; why Harry – charming, amiable Harry – would be with someone who didn't make any attempt at opening up to the public that so loved Harry. There were all sorts of rumors about Louis, of course, and had he been a girl, he would've undoubtedly been dubbed a snooty bitch. 

But Harry loved him for his unyielding refusal to grin like a fool for the cameras that showed him no love in return. He was silently stubborn, the kind of willful that Harry envied. He never, ever tried to bully Harry into doing anything, but Harry found himself striving to please him anyway.

In Louis, he'd found everything he needed: support, strength, mystery, a safe haven.

 

\----

 

That night in bed, Harry runs his fingers down Louis' bare back, tracing his fingers over the dips of Louis' spine. Louis doesn't move under the gentle ministrations. He's breathing shallowly but Harry knows he's still awake. He'd like to think that after all these years, they are that well-attuned to the other. He feels like they're slipping away from each other but they haven't drifted that far apart quite yet. If he has any say, they never will. 

“We'll work through this,” he whispers as he leans forward to press a kiss against Louis' messy hair.

Louis sighs in response and says nothing.

“I promise.”

“You know how I feel about promises,” Louis murmurs, not unkindly. 

“Yeah, but … this one's different.”

“How so?” Louis sounds acutely curious. It makes Harry want to try, to _prove_.

“You'll see, babe. Okay?”

Louis remains silent.

 

\---

 

Once Louis' stitches come out, Harry schedules their flight home to London. It's a long trip but one they've both taken numerous times. Harry considers California his second home now, and although Louis has never expressed his feelings about the place either way, he still agrees each time to accompany Harry to their beach-side bungalow. But for some reason, instead of wanting to linger for longer this time, Harry itches for London and the people they've left behind there. The lads, their other mates, even co-workers. 

Louis is taking an extended 'vacation' from work, one that his boss still does not embrace wholeheartedly. Harry had been there when Louis went in to announce his sudden leave of absence. He had watched, detached, as Louis stood before the woman and said in a level, even voice that he was experiencing 'unexpected personal issues that need to be sorted out'. As they left, Harry had turned his head to make eye contact with Louis' boss and had seen the way the woman had looked back at him with badly disguised contempt … like she knew.

\---

 

At the airport, Niall is waiting for them. He stands out amongst the paps taking photos of their homecoming, loose-limbed and sloppy. 

“Hey, lads,” he says in greeting, hugging them both quickly and tightly. “Alright?”

Louis gives him a genuine smile and then reaches out to grab Harry's hand. It's unexpected on Harry's part but he doesn't question it, just squeezes the cold hand in his. He feels like Louis' playing a role in a production that Harry is not aware of and it makes him uncomfortable. This Louis feels fake. Living with a counterfeit copy of Louis is worse than the prospect of losing him completely, and that prospect on its own feels fatal. 

“The flight was long, but what's new,” Louis replies lightly. 

Harry doesn't even bother; he just trails after the other two, one hand still locked in Louis'. He doesn't want to leave the airport, where masses of people flit around excitedly, somehow in sync despite their different destinations. Out here, it's loud and hectic but inside, it's hushed and still. He dreads the awkward silence in Niall's car as they drive to the house, dreads even more the awkward silence once they're there. Harry already knows that he'll have to face Zayn and Liam.

“How was Cali, then?” Niall asks as they pull out into traffic.

Louis starts to fill him in as Harry sits morosely in the backseat. He's starting to rethink his decision to come back so soon. The atmosphere at the bungalow had been far from ideal, but it'd been strained in a way that seemed constant and unchanging. Here, back in London, everything feels charged and oppressive. Like it's just a matter of time before _something_ blows up. Anxious, he starts gnawing on the skin of his left thumb. 

They're at the Kensington house before he wants to be. They've only been gone for two weeks but the lawn already needs a trim and the flower gardens a weeding. He'll have to call Phil, the sometimes-gardner, since Louis probably won't be feeling up to it like he usually is. They exit the car and slip through the front gate, holding it open for each other. Harry latches it behind himself, taking longer than necessary to do such a simple task. His heart is beating rapidly inside his chest. 

He doesn't hear them at first. They're talking so low, voices hushed like they're sharing secrets. He starts to itch at his arm, apprehensive, as he passes through the dusty foyer. Louis' bag is lying by the foot of the staircase, tossed aside carelessly. Before, Harry would've picked it up and rolled his eyes. Now, he just leaves Louis' belongings alone. He needs to face whatever's waiting for him in the sitting room.

Niall and Liam are sitting side-by-side on the green-and-white striped sofa, eyes on him as he walks in. Zayn's out on the patio, a fag between two fingers, with Louis at his side. They're staring out at the small, landscaped area with the bird bath and massive rose bush so all he can see of them are their backs. Liam shifts, capturing his attention. He gets to his feet and silently gestures for Harry to come closer. 

“Come on, mate,” he says, voice soft. “Not gonna bite.”

Harry nods and gaps the distance, allowing Liam to pull him into a hug. It feels sincere but for some reason, that doesn't bring much relief. He'd been predicting a completely different scenario and it's knocked him for a loop. He knows that technically, he hadn't done anything irreparably awful. But that doesn't expunge the crippling guilt that has taken up residence within his conscience. 

When he glances over Liam's shoulder, he meets Louis' eyes. There's an indescribable look in them, like he's in a photograph and frozen in time. Harry releases Liam and takes a step back. 

“I know you probably don't want to talk about this, seeing as you've just gotten back and all,” Liam begins apologetically. “But we gotta discuss what we're gonna do next.”

Nodding, Harry sits in the armchair kitty-corner from the sofa. As if sensing the beginning of the conversation, Zayn stubs his fag out in the ashtray left out just for him, and turns to head inside. He barely spares Harry a glance as he takes a seat on Liam's other side, wedging himself into the smallest spaces like he's always done. He sets one foot on the opposite knee and leans back, looking off across the room as though he hasn't just joined them for a reason. 

Harry nods again, dumbly. “Okay.”

“Are you going to sell the flat?” Niall blurts out first. 

Harry nods again, avoiding the lads' eyes and instead looking out at Louis, who's wandering the backyard with his hands wrapped up in the too-long sleeves of his jumper. 

“I'd hope so,” Zayn drawls, not even flinching as Liam smacks him lightly on the stomach. 

“Z – ”

“What? It's a fair question, yeah? That place is _tainted_. Why would they ever want to live there again? Why would Louis?” Zayn snaps, facing Liam as he spits out his words.

Harry drops his eyes to his own hands, clenched in his lap. 

“We need to talk about the band, Zayn, not – not whatever is going on between Louis and Harry,” Liam says, voice bordering on a beg. “Please, mate. Leave it alone.”

“I need more time,” Harry says, desperate to change the course of the discussion. “I – I know it's an inconvenience for everyone but … kick me out of the band, tell management that I'm done, whatever you need to do. But I can't …” 

He trails off as he looks back up. Louis' standing in the open door, watching him. 

Liam sighs and runs a hand over his hair. 

“We're not gonna do that,” Niall replies. “We'll wait, too.”

They don't say much more, just clumsily pick over the issue of Harry's break. It's settled, though; they'll wait for Harry, despite the fact that it's not decided how long they'll be waiting. It comforts Harry, of course, but it also makes him feel like that's just one more thing nipping at his heels as he runs, not quite sure when one of his pursuers will finally catch up to him.

The boys leave about an hour later, filing out the door one-by-one. Harry notices immediately that Zayn hangs back a bit to say something to Louis. They hug once before Zayn makes his way to the front door where Harry is standing holding it open. Their eyes meet and it's like being doused by arctic water.

“We might wait for you to get over whatever shit you're dealing with,” Zayn murmurs, “but not everyone will.”

\---

They hover around each other like apparitions, sharing space but existing on different spheres. Louis plays it all off well, doing stuff around the house and working on blueprints for when he returns back to work. But when Harry peeks at his sketches, he sees that half of the lines are erased, leaving entire rooms halved and houses incomplete. It's the only thing that's ever really alerted him to a disturbance in Louis' mental state: his inability to work. He never tears up pages or screams in irritation; he just erases, redraws, erases, redraws. 

On the other hand, when he's going through some sort of crisis himself, Harry freezes up. He can't play music, can't sing, can't listen to a melody without feeling like he's drowning. It gets eerily quiet as the days go by. There used to always be noise; them chatting, the radio playing, a record on the vintage player, Harry singing. Louis spends his hours out on the back patio, wrapped up in a jumper and a thick blanket. Even at night, he lights candles and sits outside, doing and thinking god only knows what as Harry wallows inside, cut off like a fish in a tank.

One morning, a week after their return, Louis appears in the bathroom door as Harry's submerged in the bathtub. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe as he watches Harry and Harry watches him. 

“Did you actually list the flat?” Louis asks, voice echoing in the tiled room. 

“Yes, before we left for California.”

“You didn't have to.”

Harry shoots up in the tub, surprised and slightly outraged.

“What?” he sputters. “Of course I had to! I – I can't go in there! Can _you_?”

Louis hesitates before answering, chewing on the corner of his mouth as he thinks.

“Maybe. One bad thing doesn't ruin a place forever.” 

“This – this isn't one of your bloody romantic buildings, Louis! This one bad thing _did_ ruin the place!” Harry's not sure why he's so angry, but he is. “It's being sold. That's it. Shit. I couldn't fucking stand in there without remembering.”

He takes Louis' silence as crossness and he thinks that he's fucked up again. Then, Louis cracks the tiniest smile. 

“It's been a while since I've seen you like this, you know? This … I can't explain it but I thought I'd lost you somewhere. Good to know you're still in there. Good-night.”

Harry stares at the empty doorway for ages.

 

\---

The next morning, he wakes up to an empty bed. On Louis' rumpled pillow there's a sticky note that simply reads: _Went out to get more tea xx_. He shoves the note into his pocket, feeling the suspicion that it's a lie. He heads downstairs and putters around, purposeless. He'd go out and look for Louis if it weren't such a pointless endeavor. Louis' a master of hiding. He doesn't need physical space to do so. It's so bloody infuriating sometimes. 

After last night, after those startling words Louis had uttered, Harry had hoped that this day would bring about newness. Clearly he'd been too naïve. He ends up sitting out on Louis' deck chair, wrapped up in his crocheted blanket that does nothing to keep out the early morning breeze. Without another body in the near vicinity it's easy to lose track of one's mind. 

He doesn't want to drift _there_ but he can't help it. 

He thinks back to Louis on that night, sitting on the edge of that hospital bed with his stitched up arms stretched out in front of him. He thinks back to the way Louis had stared at the opposite wall with uninhabited eyes, the way his gaze had been calculating when it fell on a frozen Harry. He thinks about going back to that London flat alone, looking with horror at the destruction. The shattered glass coffee table, the blood, the vase of dried Chinese lanterns that had toppled off the table and smashed into two huge pieces. 

Mostly, he thinks about his biggest mistake, how he'd slipped into his Range Rover that night, feeling off but not sure how or why. How he'd driven the five of them to Fabric, and had danced and drank until he got the call from the hospital. How he'd left Louis up in that flat, bleeding. 

 

\---

 

He's kept Harry's key to the flat in a side pocket of his wallet, tucked away between folded receipts and a point card for his favorite coffee shop. He pulls it out and unlocks the door without hesitation. The only sign of his discomfort is the way he holds his breath as he steps through the door, as if he is preparing himself for a rank odor. But the air only smells like cleaning chemicals and dust. He takes a deep breath.

The table is gone, the sofa is now against one wall, and the once-plush white carpet has been ripped out. On the bookshelf sits the two halves of the vase his oldest sister had bought him for his last birthday. It's not the home it used to be but it's still eerily the same. He'd never liked the London flat all that much, to be honest. It was a bit like California, in some ways – an escape, frills and glamour masquerading as a getaway. The Kensington house is not really anything special, very 'middle-aged, married with kids', but it's unashamed about it.

He takes a seat on the sofa and slumps back, watching dust motes spiral around the room. He asks himself why he's here, if there's really any point in saying good-bye to a place he'd never been fond of. There probably really isn't.

__

_He comes home around nine o'clock, exhausted after a long day of listening to clients' harebrained construction ideas. The black tube slung over his shoulder feels far heavier than it is. But he's glad to be home and the thought of curling up in bed with some ice cream and a good movie puts some lightness in his step. They're staying at the flat for the week because Harry's schedule has been absolutely crammed with PR events and he'd wanted Louis close._

_Louis' welcomed by the sound of cheerful voices laughing and chattering. He already knows how this night will pan out: Harry and his group of friends will use the flat as their starting point before heading off to a swanky club for the night, and sometime around two in the morning Harry will come stumbling home. He'll be enjoying a night in alone then, Louis thinks. It's not exactly heartbreaking; he could easily use some quiet time alone._

_“Babe!” Harry shouts as soon as he spots Louis, springing off their brand-new sofa with an electric grin. “You're home!”_

_Louis waves at the five of them with a small smile and places the blueprint tube on the dining table. Bottles of liquor are lined up neatly in one row, empty to varying degrees. Louis contemplates mixing himself a drink but decides to hold off; the last thing he needs is Harry thinking he's down for a night out. Instead he walks off down the hall and into the master bedroom to change out of his work clothes._

_Harry comes in less than a minute later, practically buzzing. Louis doesn't mention it, ignores the need to nag. He's too tired to start a fight he isn't going to win. Plus, Harry seldom does drugs and his drinking binges are usually reserved for once-a-month social events so it's never been much of a problem. He's promised again and again that he'll never endanger himself and Louis' taken the promise at face value._

_“You staying in tonight?” Harry asks as he wraps his arms around Louis' waist and squeezes._

_“Yeah, 'm exhausted,” Louis mumbles, toeing off his socks. “Have fun, though.”_

_“Okay, I'll be home as soon as possible.”_

_“Don't worry about it,” Louis says, turning around in Harry's grip to press a kiss to his lips. “Just be careful.”_

_After a murmured agreement and an 'I love you', Harry is out the door and within minutes the flat falls silent. Louis inhales and exhales deeply. A sense of calm washes over him. He's needed this. Sometimes it gets to be a bit much, living with Harry and his constant activity. He's no lazy bum, mind you, but Harry is on another level._

_Louis goes out into the kitchen to grab himself a cup of tea when he notices that Harry's car keys are not where they should be on the designated key rack. Louis' inner calm is replaced with a combination of panic and rage. Harry wasn't supposed to drive, not after he'd been drinking and taking god knows what. He's heading toward the front door, more than set on racing down to the parking garage, when he notices the second thing._

_There's a plastic baggy on the dining table, left among the liquor bottles. A five-year-old could deduce the contents of the bag just by looking at it. Louis picks it up between two fingers, nostrils flaring. He knows Harry's mates bring drugs into the flat but they'd never been so bold as to leave the shit behind like it's some rubbish dump until now. He's still fuming, caught between confrontation and just silently flushing the coke down the loo when the door opens._

_“Oh, hey.”_

_Louis looks up to see Harry's mate, Jonah, hovering in the doorway. He's some random aspiring model Harry had met through mutual friends and Louis doesn't know him all that well. It's basically an unspoken understanding that Louis doesn't have much interest in Harry's friends, with Liam, Niall and Zayn as the exceptions._

_“Is this yours?” Louis asks, voice arctic cold as he raises the baggy up for the other man to see._

_He knows it is just by looking at Jonah's face. He looks torn, caught between wanting to get the bag from Louis and not wanting to admit to being the owner of the drugs._

_“Er, yeah, but -”_

_“Do you idiots think you can just bring this shit into my home and then leave it lying around like it's just harmless candy?” Louis interrupts. “Fucking hell, have some respect!”_

_“Calm down, mate, it's not a big deal.”_

_Louis' had too long of a day for this. He rarely ever snaps like this and it feels both exhilarating and nauseating._

_“Listen, just hand it over and I'll leave,” Jonah says. “No harm, no foul.”_

_Louis snorts and rolls his eyes at the clichéd response. He already knows Jonah's type: privileged, arrogant, and stupid._

_“Right, well, you left it here so now it's mine,” Louis replies sharply, already starting to move backwards._

_He sees the panic in Jonah's eyes, the realization. Louis has every intention of tossing the bag into the toilet and watching it disappear into nothingness, and Jonah knows it. It all happens rather quickly after that. Jonah darts forward like a boxer, startling Louis into running. They move into the living area and Louis stands behind the coffee table, his back to the bookshelf. He can't wrap his mind around the fact that this is happening, he's being cornered in his own living room by some desperate druggie._

_“Fucking hand it over,” Jonah snarls, advancing steadily._

_Louis knows that he should just do it, end this and let the situation diffuse itself but he's gripping the baggie in a tight fist and he can't let go. He's too slow to react when Jonah lunges, shoving him roughly. It's enough force to send Louis sideways into the coffee table, knocking off a vase and a pile of magazines. He doesn't hear the impact, doesn't feel anything as his arms go through the delicate sheet of glass. It only takes a few seconds of utter shock before the pain sets in, searing heat that runs up his wrists where the shards of glass are embedded the deepest._

_By the time he extracts himself and gets into a seated position on the carpet Jonah is gone. It doesn't even matter, all he can focus on is the blood running in rivulets down his arms and over his clenched fingers. He sits there for who knows how long, breathing hard and drowning in adrenaline. It's only when the pain becomes too much that he stumbles to his feet and staggers into the bedroom where he's left his cellphone. He calls 999 with slippery fingers and then lets the phone slide out of his hand. It's only as the sound of the ambulance bleeds into the quiet of the street that he realizes he still has the bag of cocaine tucked into one hand._

The knocking startles Louis out of his memory. 

He sits up and waits with baited breath until the knocking stops. He already knows who it is. Who else could it be? He must've noticed the missing key, gone from the junk drawer in the kitchen. Louis doesn't move from the sofa until Harry starts calling his name through the door, sounding so tired and worn out. He flips open the lock with deft fingers, again with no hesitance.

“I fucking knew it,” Harry says in a rush of breath, falling toward Louis. 

Louis wraps his arms around Harry and holds him, swaying slightly in a comforting motion. 

“Just had to see it one more time,” Louis mumbles against Harry's neck. 

“Are we okay?” Harry asks, once, then twice. 

“Yes, Harry, fucking hell,” Louis replies with a choked laugh of disbelief. “You broke your promise, you know, but you weren't the one who pushed me into a table.”

“Shit, Louis, I'm -”

“Apologize to me one more damn time, I swear.”

They both chuckle weakly into each others' skin. It'll be okay, somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> Song used for this work: Hotel Ceiling by Rixton


End file.
